


Learning to Live (for Yesterday I Died)

by daybreakrumour



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Domestic, Dream Smp, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, I just want them to be happy, Internal Conflict, Light Angst, Manipulation, Nightmares, Platonic Relationships, Redemption, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Tommy’s POV, everyone is the protagonist, rated teen for tommy’s potty mouth, tommy misses home it’s sad i’m sad, uhh these tags are very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daybreakrumour/pseuds/daybreakrumour
Summary: Just some detestable kid in fragments of shame, banished to the end of the world.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 118





	1. Fields of Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Just floating in angst, thinking about how sad the exiling was, and saw an opportunity to write about Tommy’s time in the wilderness. 
> 
> I will try to stick as close to canon events as they happen, but obviously the streams are hours long and not everything is gonna be accurate. Hope u enjoy :))

As the wind starts blowing wrong and the grass becomes too coarse, Tommy starts to cry.

Rain thrashes down on the unsteady roof, relentless and unforgiving, surrounding him in a terrible shield of sound. Whatever demon residing in his chest tightens its iron grip on his lungs, and he splutters, heaving two great, gasping breaths. He becomes dimly aware that Wilbur is shouting something incomprehensible outside.

_ Hubris. _

_ noun _

_ /ˈhju·brɪs/ _

_ An extreme and unreasonable feeling of pride and confidence in yourself. _

It is not a word Tommy has ever thought about, not once. Maybe Wilbur had mentioned it in passing before, way back when his face had glowed with a divine kind of authority, pink-cheeked, quick to laughter. Tommy had never even known how to pronounce it,  _ hubris_, never mind what it meant. It had always just been a strange, philosophical concept that existed only in the minds of insecure adults.

But now Tommy realises, sitting alone and abandoned in the soil, that he has always had this blurry, red-tinted shadow that tunnelled his vision, that pushed others down. That whatever calculative rationality that filters his friends’ speech has always been lacking in his own, and his boyish playfulness has forever been more akin to an insatiable, morbid addiction to testing people’s limits; seeing just how much he could push their tolerance before they snapped. That when he lashed at his comrades, harassed his enemies, poked at the patience of the universe over and over and still got his way, that maybe, just maybe, he might’ve had this coming.

No.

_ No no no no. _

That’s not how it goes.

Actually, it’s all Wilbur’s fault, really. He’s the one who made Tubbo like this. 

It’s Fundy and Quackity’s fault too, for not backing Tommy up when he needed them most, and it’s Schlatt’s tyranny that created the permanent rift between the two nations in the first place. And above all, Dream’s the fucker who made everything go to shit. Overreacting over a harmless prank, forcing Tubbo into an impossible decision, robbing Wilbur and Tommy of all their resources and leaving them vulnerable and alone on a deserted island. Like some omnipotent, wrathful god who only intervenes when things get too boring, his eyes lighting up in a fevered frenzy behind his milk-white mask. 

Yes, of course. 

It’s all  _ their _ fault, not Tommy’s.

He thrusts his hands into the ground and grabs a handful of cold soil, clumps of it crumbling onto his knees, dirt sinking into his nails. And as thunder rumbles and growls in the distance, Tommy wonders if they’re all laughing at him; the people he’d grown to view as family, sitting at home, warm and safe, laughing at the broken  _ thing _ their Vice President is now. 

Just some detestable kid in fragments of shame, banished to the end of the world.

After  _ everything _ he did for them, the days and weeks they fought and planned and toiled together, pickaxes in hand and laughter eternally lying wait. He thinks of the promised loyalties, the surprising alliances, the adventures and the burning trees and his discs, cracked and bloodied and as sought after as Helen of Troy. The secret bases that held months of inside jokes and poorly brewed potions, the ugly cobblestone railways that marred the skyline, the violent explosions that repeatedly destroyed everything, and how every morning he would blink sleepily at the panoramic view of the chaotically misshapen, horribly broken, devastatingly  _ perfect _ home they had created.

That night, Tommy dreams of what once was, and wakes up to a pool of crystallising tears on the grass next to his cheek.

—

After a few hours of brooding, Tommy dredges up whatever pride he has left, and sets out to find where Wilbur had passed out for the night. He takes the diamond spade the ghost gave him, and some bread from the chest in the corner. As he moodily slams shut the wooden door of their house, memories of his exile claw at the back of his mind.

“Dream, please escort Tommy out of my country.”

Tubbo, fists clenched at his sides, his usually soft, childish voice nearing a snarl. His eyes, brown and bear-like, filled with an intense, magisterial ferocity. His shoulders, which used to be shyly hunched forwards, pressed down, slanted towards the earth, the weight of an entire nation forcing them flat, raising his chin, straightening his back. 

Tommy scrunches his face and shakes his head, clearing his mind of such treasonous thoughts. He’d be back to L’manberg soon enough. He’d graciously hear out Tubbo then. Tubbo is his best friend until the end of time; Tommy always has a second chance waiting to give to him.

After what was only fifteen minutes of searching, Tommy finds the former president sitting cross legged under a tree, a wooden sword and several trapdoors in his lap. He looks up when he hears Tommy approach, something comparable to relief crossing over his sallow face.

“What an earth are you doing?” Tommy says with a huff. “I just wasted like, three hours looking for you, man.”

“Oh. Sorry Tommy, I didn’t mean to worry you,” the ghost replies, voice like winter air and collapsing fog. Tommy sighs dramatically, offering a hand to help him up, and Wilbur’s hand is frighteningly cold in his own. Tommy drops it quickly. 

“Come on Ghostbur, let’s get back to camp. We can’t waste time.” 

“But this place is so nice!” Wilbur says, sing-song, swaying slightly as they walk through the fields. “Lads on tour in the countryside!”

Tommy frowns, looking over his shoulder at his former mentor, searching for any trace of the composed, skilful, authoritative man he used to be. 

Empty, glazed eyes stare back. 

Tommy turns around and pulls out his pickaxe.  “Go gather some wood, or something. We’re gonna need to be prepared for our return to L’Manberg.” 

The ghost hums in reply, and the noise is like a crackling record. “I think I’ll go find some clay, so we can make our house pretty!” His voice fades into the clouds as he meanders back into the forest. Tommy looks down at his hands for a second, armour-less and blue-veined, and jumps down into a cave nearby, his only source of light the reflection of his golden armoured legs.

After months of enchanted netherite and endless wherewithal at his disposal, somehow he’s here, in a cave, searching for coal with terrible stone tools. Mining in a pit, tired and cold, just him and a ghost and the moon in the grass. 

It’s not enough, it will never be enough. His forehead hurts from creasing his eyebrows in worry. 

_ Worry? _

What a  foreign feeling. 

He mines for a while, until his back starts to ache, and when he climbs out the cave and wades through tall grass, he sees that the sun is already setting, and Wilbur has returned with piles of clay. 

“Why didn’t you want me to talk to Technoblade?” Wilbur enquires, following Tommy into the next cave. “He gave me a message, earlier.”

Tommy opens his mouth to list off just about every archaic, destructive thing that bastard pig has ever done, and then finds himself closing it. He doesn’t have the option to refuse help now. He doesn’t have the option to deny alliances. 

“What did he say to you?” he asks carefully, spotting some iron in the corner. He hears the telltale crumpling sound of unfolding paper. 

“He said...” Wilbur says, drawing out the syllables as he smooths the letter. “Send me the coordinates, but don’t say this out loud.” 

There’s silence, as the ghost realises what he just did. “Oh frick, wait. Uh-“ He frantically backtracks, scrunching up the paper. 

Tommy stops moving, and glaring at the ground, his breath stilling. There’s no way. There’s no way that Wilbur would give away their location.

“What. Do  _ not  _ send him any- you didn’t, Ghostbur, you didn’t send... Wil-Wilbur, Wilbur, _Wilbur_. You didn’t send him ANY information, did you?” Tommy trips over his words, desperation gluing his jaw. 

“Uhh...”

Tommy tightens his grip on his pickaxe, slamming it into the wall. 

“Please, for the  _ fucking _ love of God, you didn’t send him any-“

Wilbur interrupts, voice airy. “And then I said, okay Technoblade, and then I don’t think I said anything else.” 

Tommy rests his head against cool stone, searching for something, anything, to ground him.

“I fucking-“ 

He sighs, screwing his eyes shut, shaking away the memories that threaten to overpower him. “If it wasn’t for him, we would still be in L’Manberg and I would still be vice president, and... and, I would just be fighting Dream.” 

He’s aware that his voice is quivering slightly, like some sort of fucking coward, so he takes a breath to steel his nerves. 

“It was Wilbur and Techno who fucked us over.”

There’s silence, and Wilbur makes a noise of understanding.

“Well, so it’s not entirely my fault then.”

“No, no. It is.” Tommy snaps, dangerously bitter, and he climbs out the pit, not wanting to be near him for much longer. He runs over the empty fields, and it’s just _him and a ghost and the moon in the grass_. He slashes at the stems with his sword, and he’s tired, so tired, of stone tools and ghostly Wilbur and dirt houses and this _Goddamn fucking island_. Wilbur’s whimsical voice calls after him.

“But I’m gonna make it up to you! Tommy, I’m gonna make it up to you!” Tommy ignores him, running towards their shack of a house, Wilbur trailing behind.

“Even if you won’t forgive Alivebur, I want you to forgive Ghostbur.” 

Tommy jogs towards the small pond to the left of their house, still refusing to reply. He wades in, the water soaking through his trousers. 

“I’m gonna make it up to you, Tommy, I’m gonna make us the best damn holiday home you’ve ever seen, and we’re gonna have the best time here. It’s gonna be so fun, and you’re gonna look back at the time in L’manberg, and you’re gonna say, ‘Goddamn, I’m so glad the lads were on tour that day.’ because now, instead of having to worry about-“

Tommy tunes out Wilbur’s rambling apology, fishing out coal from the murky depths, and when he turns around, he nearly jumps out of his skin, because there’s someone standing  _right behind him_.

Tommy unsheathes his sword, but it’s Sam, it’s only Sam, his netherite armour glimmering purple, ethereal and angel-like. Neither of them say a word, just staring at each other for a moment, and Tommy thinks he can see smiling eyes behind his green mask. 

Sam moves then, slow and hesitant, like Tommy is some easily frightened animal that he doesn’t want to scare away. He pulls out a sack of something from his inventory, and it smells so sweet and autumnal and caramel-like, that Tommy’s suspicion wavers slightly. Sam pushes the pumpkin pies into Tommy’s arms, and then nods steadily, calmly. 

“Who’s that?” Wilbur asks, finally reaching where Tommy was mining. “Why is Sam here?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Sam. Why are you being so quiet?” 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Sam says, low and apathetic, voice muffled slightly from under his mask. “I have a message. A very important message for you, Tommy.”

Tommy feels his guard rise up again, and Wilbur turns away to slash at zombies who groan nearby.  _ If this is some kind of cruel threat from Dream- _

“What.” Tommy growls, raising his sword a bit higher. The flimsy thing would deal no damage to Sam’s full suit of enchanted netherite, but he wants his intentions to be clear.  _ I don’t trust you, tread carefully. _

“I know you were sent away, and... I’m sorry.” Sam shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his monotonous tone revealing a barely noticeable hint of sympathy. “You know where my house is, it’s far from all of them, you can come find me and hide there, if you need a place to stay.”  He turns, moon in his hands, tall and sturdy, outlined by the night sky. 

“When you need someone, you know where to find me.”

Before Tommy can even muster up a reply, Sam is gone, sprinting away through the grass, the stars chasing his receding form. 

“Thank you.” Tommy murmurs, constellations like a lullaby, knee deep in cool grass on plains of a fresh start. He feels something dangerous welling up inside, something small and earnest and flickering, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

Ah, he knows what it is. It’s some malformed, cowardly, fawn-like form of  _hope_.


	2. Oceans of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy tries to adjust to his new, purposeless existence, and painful recollections plague him every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is awfully short, but it feels too separate and the end sentence is too final to include another few paragraphs.

Tommy traces a finger down the trunk of a tree as he ambles down the worn path, heading to the lake. The bark is strangely warm, unlike the cool, evening air around it. A chaffinch chirps overheard. Tommy stills.

Why did he come here?

A horrible kind of confusion overcomes him, and he runs a hand down his face. A gentle static fills his ears.

“-and then he drank the whole thing! Can you believe it?” a familiar voice declares, and Tommy grins instinctually. He blindly follows the sound of bubbling laughter through the trees, down the grassy hill, to the bench overlooking the city, where two individuals sit, talking animatedly.

“All alone with no one around, Wilbur and Tubbo? That’s kinda sus.”

Wilbur and Tubbo turn around, backlit by the setting sun, eyes shining from the light.

“Wow, Tommy! Thanks for finally gracing us with your presence.”Wilbur snips, and Tubbo giggles. Tommy smirks in reply, something euphoric and proud buzzing around in his stomach. He shoves Wilbur to create space and sits between them, hands resting on his neck, elbows pointed to the sky.

“Wilbur was just telling me about what Sapnap did yesterday! Did you know that-“ 

Tubbo is cut off by an indignant cough from Wilbur. “Tubbo! I told you not to tell anyone!’

“What?” Tommy splutters. “You can’t just, you can’t just say that! What the-“ He leans forward, boisterous laughter forcing its way out his mouth. The mere sound of it sends nearby birds fleeing from their nests, which only makes the three cackle louder. When they stop, Tubbo yawns, and Wilbur makes a cynical comment about how its past their bedtime, and they capsize into chuckles once more. 

After the giggles finally trickle away, they sit in amiable silence, faces aglow in a warm, golden honey. Tommy can feel the heart of their city thrumming in the ground, brave, lively and hopeful.

“This is nice.” Tubbo says quietly, chestnut hair fluttering away from his face, eyes clear and youthful. Tommy hums in agreement. Time passes through treacle, and his face is sore from smiling. 

“We’ve come a long way,” Wilbur replies, after a while, in that reasonable, calming voice of his. Tommy grins and nudges him, his ornamented suit crinkling with the movement.

There is a reassuring warmth from where his shoulders make contact with theirs, and he hopes that somehow, non-verbally, they understand how much they mean to him. He complies with the flash of impulse, slinging an arm around them both. 

He opens his mouth, desperately trying to form words he doesn’t know how to say.

“Oh shut up!” Tubbo yells, a grin creasing his face, and Tommy all but jumps. “I can literally hear you thinking! We love you too, man.”

The panicked breath he didn’t realised he had been holding leaves his lungs in a speechless huff. He listens to his friends’ soft breathing, raw and honest and alive.

An unfamiliar fire flickers within him, and he lets it grow and climb up his insides. A gentle breeze whispers over the lake, small waves rippling at his feet. He discreetly tightens his embrace on his loved ones, savouring that feeling, of security, of safety. He welcomes the lull of contentment, lets it fill up his soul and awaken his heart. His family and his home, after an eternity of searching.

_ This is it. This is how it’s meant to be. _

Tommy wakes up with a sob, their names lying unspoken on his tongue.

—

He clings onto Wilbur’s coat, wrapped around him protectively, but its scarily cold and smells of nothing. He swallows down a pathetic wail, eyes watching empty shadows.

_Please, please take me back_ , he thinks, throat clogging up.  _ I’ll do anything. Just let me come home. _

The ground is horrifically frozen, and Tommy is acutely aware of the missing hum of peaceable wildlife. This is why Tommy hates being awake at night, it enhances everything, every skeleton snap and enderman rumble, every lonely, shaking breath. He snorts to himself.  _ And since when was he such a pussy?  _

In a wildfire of recklessness, Tommy flings open the door to the shack, sword in hand, ready to slash whatever nocturnal beast is lying wait in the grass. Much to his disappointment (and relief), there’s only a rabbit sitting timidly in the darkness. Something about the pathetic thing, with its eyes, wide and gullible, reminds Tommy of Tubbo, so he slams the door shut and lights the torches that creak precariously above his head. He’s definitely awake now. Might as well do something useful.

He begins by lighting the fire in the two furnaces in the corner, coal crumbling in his fingers, and with the practised efficiency of an expert, he manages to salvage enough iron to make some basic armour. He sets to work on the crafting table then, hammering sheets of metal into place, looping straps, twisting bolts. And when he’s done, he runs his fingers over smooth, faceless white metal, something he hasn’t done in months. 

He stands up, various bolts and tapes falling to the ground from his lap. His trousers cling to his legs, dampened by the dewy ground he had been sitting on. He’s oddly excited; he’s used to bright diamond and pretentious netherite: archaic, cumbersome, impenetrable. And as he slips the iron chest-plate over his head, uncouthly segmented and gloriously shabby, he finds he doesn’t even mind the inferior quality. Maybe he actually prefers it - that organic feeling of survival, the lack of luxury.

“How am I still single? I’m literally so cool,” he mutters to himself, and he briefly considers saluting the dirt wall in front of him, before banishing the idea with a cringe. That’s a bit much, even for him.

After that, Tommy begins to craft some more items; initially vacillating between tools and armour, before deciding on the former. He tells himself some jokes in Spanish as he works, trying to recall the jabs Quackity had made back during the peacetime between L’Manberg and the Dream SMP, and generally failing to recall anything good. By dawn, his nightmare is fading into the realms of the forgotten, and he feels a little more prepared to face ol’ Mother Nature alone (well, he isn’t  completely alone, but he hasn’t seen Wilbur in ages, and he’s spent enough time dispiritedly waiting for him.) 

“That fuckin’ ghost. Commitment issues, or something,” Tommy grumbles to himself. He gently folds his mentor’s coat and puts in the chest, just in case he returns when Tommy is out. Not that Tommy cares, because he _definitely_ doesn’t . Not even a little.

He reaches towards the ceiling, stretching his back with a satisfying click. “Let’s take stock, troops.”

After rummaging around in his inventory and through the chests in the dirt shack, he creates a list of the resources he’s in dire need of, and the things it would be good to have. Damn that Wilbur, going off with the only diamond tools they own.

He decides that a thorough scouting of the area would be a good plan. He can gather resources, find caves and fresh water sources, maybe even come up with some traps (for when Dream inevitably travels over to gloat at him and randomly blow up shit.)

But when Tommy opens the door and catches the sight of the rest of the world, he freezes completely, for the sweeping view has suddenly made him intensely aware of how truly alone he is. His only company is an endless expanse of grass, the lithe, ageless trees that outline the horizon, and the ocean that separates him from the rest of humanity. 

When was the last time he had been so isolated? So completely and utterly at the mercy of nature? 

He waits for fear to eat away at the tentative acceptance he had so carefully procured, but is surprised to feel nothing, nothing except the uncharacteristic vacancy he has become so accustomed to. Indignation and betrayal swirl somewhere deep inside, but they seem so fraudulent, so fake, and that alarms him, because what is he, if he’s lost his angry, bratty facade?

Tommy diminishes the thought and forces himself to step into the sea of tickling stalks, flicking blond hair out his face with a shake of his head. He heaves in a breath, and the cool, restorative air soothes his searing throat. Everything smells pleasantly earthy; the soft smell of dew and grass is sharpened ever so slightly by the salty tang of ocean spray. Promises murmur through the plains, wild and languid and auspicious.

He makes his way towards the small beach, water aglow with delicate morning light. It’s not even a beach, really, just a sandy little alcove where the ocean touches land. There are some caves nearby, along with strange plants that crawl up the crumbling cliff. 

He finds himself momentarily transfixed by the shallow, greyish water shyly lapping at the sand. It’s not a scene that Tommy would usually think of as pretty, but in the ambrosial glimmer of dawn, there’s something picturesque about it all. He meanders to a nearby meadow, absentmindedly chopping down the trees as the sun begins to drag itself up through the clouds, his nightmare from earlier long forgotten. He stores the logs haphazardly in his backpack, and abruptly becomes conscious of the fact he’s never been this  quiet in his entire life. 

Tommy is eternally bold and cocky, he knows that, he’s never taken things seriously; even when Schlatt had exiled him and Wilbur, there was a shocked amusement that dominated his other emotions. “Hyped-up, irresponsible, disrespectful,” his friends call him. He’s always been constantly in motion, all lanky limbs and scrunched up grins, hectic and hysterical, laughing when he shouldn’t. But when Dream had planted a foot on his chest and sent him tumbling off the obsidian wall, he had been overwhelmed by a  _stillness_ ,  and that had been the first time he’d ever felt such a thing, and back then, it had made his blood run cold. He had looked up into Tubbo’s tearful face, which had been robbed of colour by dismay and regret, and watched as his lips formed the words:

“Tommy, you are hereby exiled.”

The sentence had slapped Tommy across the face, rendered him mute, awakened an unrestrained, frantic grief the likes of which he’d never felt before. He had stared, speechlessly, at Quackity, his usual accomplice in chaos, who’s mouth was gaping open in shock, sheer distress clouding his usual grinning eyes. And Fundy, still feebly protesting, looking from Tommy to Tubbo to Dream and back again, eerily at a loss for words. 

Following that, everything is blurred together: the burning of his arms as he heaved the oars of his boat, the venomous triumph hidden in Dream’s solemnity, and Wilbur’s cool, sombre presence beside him as their possessions were incinerated in the earth below them. Tommy can still feel the hollowness of the dirt under his feet, even now, if he stomps on the ground hard enough. 

An inarticulateness, and certainly not a good one. 

Tommy blinks away the memories, and the clouds are ten times more grey than they were before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I’m not sure if there’ll be a whole load of focus on the canon events that happen during Tommy’s Alone Time, I think it’ll be mainly just him remembering things and me just filling in the gaps of the eventless times which aren’t captured during streams.


	3. Caves of Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream pays Tommy a visit, and everything becomes a hundred times more confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty behind on current day lore, bear with me folks.

“Ugly ass shrek-looking bitch. What the FUCK. I literally hate him. He looks like a pile of fucking shit I’m telling you. SHIT SHIT-“

Tommy curls his lip and grumbles something incomprehensible. That bitch. Dream the bitch. Bright green dumb fucking bitch.

Badbayhalo, he smells kinda gross, but he travelled all the way to Tommy’s sad little corner of the earth (newly crowned “Logstedshire”) and left him a gift! Some resources! And some much needed company that wasn’t a fucking ghost!

Tommy had been on a couple-day-long quest exploring nearby land after his day of moping by the sea, and had returned to his forsaken fields to find what he had thought was someone  _griefing_ ,  only to find it was actually just a large, poorly built  _ present _ . He had yelled for a bit, incredulous and somewhat offended, because out of all the people that could’ve visited him, it was  _ Bad  _ who had checked up on him. Badboy-fucking-halo!

Bad’s strange, wavering drawl had always gotten on Tommy’s nerves, but upon hearing it after  weeks  of his own miserable thoughts and the occasional breathy comment from Wilbur, it was like a fucking symphony of angels.

He had then stumbled down a little hill to find a small campsite tucked away in the corner, obscured by ancient oak trees, the cream walls surrounding it more than twice Tommy’s substantial height. Inside, he had been surprised to find a small, cosy hut at the end of the lawn, all mismatched cobblestone and uneven birch and strangely shaped duck egg blue clay. A misshapen dirt path cut its way through the grass in front of it. Next to the house was an old-fashioned tent, weathered spruce planks holding up navy fabric. There was a pile of barrels near the entrance of the campsite too, and the awkwardly written labels on them had confirmed that it had been  _ Wilbur  _ who had made all this. Maybe that odd, crazy ghost wasn’t so bad after all. The sight of it had made something tearful and sentimental well up inside, so Tommy had embarrassedly ran out and started swearing at Bad. 

A strange campsite. A strange campsite with bulky, mottled fencing and dead-looking grass. A house, with a too-high roof and an unfashionable oven and a broken clock that looked like it could fall off the fucking wall at any moment. It was absolutely  _ perfect _ .

He and Bad had then argued and bickered like children, voices reaching unnecessarily loud levels, and it had felt just like old times, with Bad narrowing his eyes at Tommy’s foul language, hiding amusement with hyperbolic disdain. Tommy had been so sincerely  touched,  so pleased and grateful for the companionship. They had talked and messed around and bantered for the whole night, killing zombies and aimlessly leaping around. No Tubbo, no Fundy, no Quackity. But turns out that maybe Bad isn’t all that...  _ bad_. 

But then, all of a sudden, Tommy had sensed something in the air shift. It was like the island itself had sucked in a horrible breath, readying itself for a great storm, the atmosphere compressing at the corners, charged inexplicably. He had stilled almost instantly, some primal instinct taking his chin in its hands and forcing him to look over his shoulder. 

A figure stood atop the hill. A tremendous axe was held perfectly motionless in one hand, telltale dents and crimson smudges marring its blade. Although his manner was suggestive of someone relaxed, and friendly - the casual slouch of his broad back, the youthful tilt of his deft, angular shoulders - it was nonetheless an immediately imposing individual. Something about him seemed terribly poised, like a viper lying wait, jesuitical in the sand.

Dread had slammed into Tommy, and he stood there for a moment, blinking. Of course,  _of course_ ,  Dream had shown up. The mere sight of him, ageless and watchful, had turned Tommy’s mouth sour. 

And now here he is, swearing under his breath, staring at that dopey, porcelain mask, revulsion and loathing poisoning his joy. He’s completely and utterly bemused by the  _audacity of this bitch_. 

“Hello.” Dream calls, words gliding over the grass. His voice is sonorous and sardonic, and Tommy’s hackles raise instantly at the sound. Bad twitchily runs over to him, tripping every other step, and Tommy watches him make small talk, hands gesturing catatonically. Dream remains completely still, hands resting on his axe like a staff, before turning his attention towards Tommy.

“Tommy,” he says, his tone deceptively melodious.

“Yes! Yes,” Tommy replies, surprising himself with his own obedience. 

“Is there anything you would like to put on the floor now?” 

Tommy doesn’t pause. “Yes.” He rummages through his inventory, clumsily dropping some red carpet into the cavity Dream had just created with a single swing of his shovel. 

The man then dug down a bit further, every twitch of his arms purposeful and controlled. 

“Dreaam! You’re evil- you’re so evil by the way,” Tommy informs him, defaulting to his usual recalcitrant demeanour. 

“Is there anything else you want to throw in?”

“Nope!” Tommy answers hurriedly, briefly keeping his mouth shut, and then promptly whining again. 

“Come on...” Dream prompts, like Tommy is a particularly disobedient student of his. “I know there’s _something_ else you want to drop down here.”

Tommy quickly looks across at Bad, and they vigorously shake their heads at each other, agreeing non-verbally to cover each other’s tracks.

“No, they’re... Um... I don’t reckon there is!” His voice curves upwards with the obvious lie.

Dream tilts his face in Tommy’s direction, mask eternally unreadable. “Okay... are you sure?”

“Yes!” Tommy replies, a bit too loudly. 

“Alright.” Dream turns away then, and Tommy sighs in relief. He decides to steer the conversation far, far away from blowing up his possessions. 

“What do you look like?”

“What about your armour?” Dream cuts him off, strategically ignoring his question.

“No-this is... I actually earned this myself.”

“Yeah, I know you did! Just... just drop it in the hole, Tommy.” His voice is casual, silky and persuasive, like he had just said something perfectly reasonable.

“No. No- NO! You can’t just come and demand things from me,” Tommy blusters. “I’ve been exiled! I’ve done your shit! What do you mean?!”

“Tommy.”

A familiar teenage decadence sparks in Tommy’s heart: youthful, unruly, defiant. 

“What, Dream.”

Dream swings at him then, twirling his axe like it weighs no more than a pocket knife, and suddenly Tommy is flat on his back, vision swirling, completely winded, pain blossoming in his chest. 

“HOOOOOOOO-“ Tommy hollers, lightning agony shooting up and down his body. “Okayokayokayokay-“

His precious chest-plate is up and over his head in a flash, as are his cumbersome golden leg guards, and he hastily throws them onto the stone with a horrible clang. Dream’s blow had been a debilitating one; his breathing is ragged and shallow from the hit, and a bruise is certainly forming already, patches of internal bleeding, too. He squawks a couple times, and then watches in horror as an awfully familiar red plummets into the pit, the explosion shaking the earth, cremating his only protection instantly. 

“Huh!” Dream says, sounding thoroughly entertained. He swings his axe a couple times, radiating a sadistic satisfaction. “Anyway, how is exile treating you?”

“YOU ARE A DUMB BITCH!” Tommy yowls, hurling a match onto the grass in a blaze of fury. Dream just gazes at him, still and contemplative, the flames licking at his feet making his armour glow a vindictive orange. Tommy jolts and puts it out immediately, apologetically splashing the embers with a bucket of water. 

“Why don’t you leave the poor exiled man alone,” an inflectionless voice says, after Dream had patted out any remaining flames. “You’re just rubbing salt into the wound now, which is... kinda cool, actually.” 

Oh _great_. Now Sapnap is here too, brown eyes sparking with a twisted mischief, clearly relishing Tommy’s torment. Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose and swears, as per usual.  _ Really _ just rubbing salt into the wound, at this point. Just being punched back to the ground the moment he gets up. Tommy feels his mood sink even lower, festering in the centre of the earth. 

The two Americans continue to harass him (albeit in its usual light-hearted tone), and although Tommy finds himself instinctively responding with his usual fervour, he’s not really there. He’s sort of...done with all of this, all of them. 

“Why are you even here? What - what more could you  _ possibly _ want from me?” Tommy asks at one point, voice cracking like cement. “You’ve tortured me-“

“I’m just keeping an eye on you, Tommy,” Dream replies good-naturedly, eyeing the wonky house that Tommy has grown terribly fond of. 

“What does that mean?!”

“I’m just making sure you’re not getting up to no good.”

“HOW can- how can you say that you fuckin’ stupid manipulator?! You fucking green bastard?” Tommy stomps out the campsite, Dream and Sapnap in tow.

“And you know why I did that?” Dream says, circling in front of him, and it’s not really phrased as a question, but Tommy treats it as one anyway.

“Yes? Yes? Why.”

“You  _ know  _ why.”

His tone is still charmingly jovial - they’re all still bantering - but there’s some hidden threat in there that makes Tommy raise his shoulders and lower his head, slightly.

He stalks towards the present Bad left him, unconsciously seeking some comfort. He musters up his reckless courage again. “No, tell me. Why?”

“Because...” Dream pauses, the silence sharp. “You don’t  _ listen _ to me. You’re the only person who doesn’t ever  _ listen _ to me.”

Tommy turns around, grumbling, and Dream is suddenly there, face too close to his. 

“You’re like a little, annoying  _ bug  _ that’s in my room, and it’s pissing me off, so I take you and put you outside. And that’s what I did. I’m just making sure you  _ stay _ outside.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes and dodges past him, kicking at the dirt with his scuffed trainers. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Damn, he just killed you a bug!” Sapnap chortles, the tails of his bandana swaying like cat’s tails. 

“Sapnap! You know yesterday you were like ‘Ooh! I’ll be on your side, TommyInnit! I’ll be your  _ friend!_’” Tommy’s voice cracks with the high-pitched imitation. “And now you’re like, ‘Yeah Dream, yeah Dream, I love you Dream, please let me be the hunter-“

“Listen here, listen here, Tommy,” Sapnap interrupts. “I know you’re in a bit of a tricky spot, but it is a lil’ funny that Dream is just over there, you know...” He trails off with a poorly hidden chuckle. 

Tommy feels his face fall. “You’re all-“ He stops, embarrassed at the despondent softness of his voice. He huffs scornfully, strengthening his resentment. “You’re all  _arseholes_ ,  other than Badbayhalo.”

“Badboyhalo?” Sapnap says incredulously. “He’s the meanest one of us all!”

They joke around for a bit, Bad returning to the fray after a while, and Tommy is immensely relieved, because this is familiar territory for him, the offensive jabs and flippant insults. 

“So, what do you even want from me, anyway?” he asks, after he finds his mine, looking to make new armour after Dream destroyed his. 

“Well, nothing, I’m just here to talk to you,” Dream says mildly, and Tommy can feel his stare on the back of his head as he hacks at iron.

“Tommy. We’re still  _friends_ ,  okay? Just because I exiled you, doesn’t mean we’re not friends.” 

Tommy snorts at that. “Yeah, just because I  _ killed your friends and family_, doesn’t mean we can’t be  _ bros_.” 

They all laugh, and Tommy feels slightly less hostile, strangely charmed. Despite everything, they all just kind of  click , it’s never awkward between them, regardless of what happens. But before he can make another quip, a horde of zombies emerges from the darkness, and Dream pulls out his bow, nimble fingers drawing arrows from the quiver on his back, assured and never wrong. Even in the pitch black of the cave, his aim is flawless, muscled arms in perfect form, his posture perfect. Tommy can’t help but admire his skill, trying to engrain his agile, doubtless movements into his mind. 

Tommy continues into the cave, gleefully finding coal, and then he spots a  _ fucking creeper _ lurching its way towards him.

“Help me,” he says, stumbling backwards, and  _ oh fuck wouldn’t it be awkward if he died right now- _

“Tommy!” Dream barks, swooping in front of him, slicing his axe in a wide arc. The creeper disintegrates, and Tommy blubbers, turning back to his coal, overwhelmed by a forest of emotions.

“This is so  _weird_ ,  man!” Tommy shouts, surveying the trio of heavily armoured knights. “You’re all just _standing_ there,  _ watching _ me-“

“I mean yeah, it’s kinda entertaining,” Sapnap says, through a mouthful of food. Crumbs fly everywhere, in a way that strikes Tommy as very obnoxious and purposeful. 

“I don’t think it’s weird!” Dream offers, wiping his axe on his undershirt. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty normal.” Chunks of food spray onto Tommy’s face again, and he scowls.

“I think watching people walking in a cave is weird.” Tommy ventures further down the winding tunnel, being careful not to trip on any stray rocks.

“Well, you’re just mining iron and stuff.” 

“Ah you see, there’s some sort of correlation to _my_ _ lack of things _ and the  _ people around me_ _._ ” Tommy says pointedly. “And, you know, this big exile thing that happened, because of you.”

“Well, I mean... you’ve gotta take at least part  of the blame,” Dream’s voice echoes out from  behind him, playful and amused.

“Why would I take the blame?” Tommy scoffs, fumbling with his sword. “I’m ME-“

A creeper explodes in front of him, the force of it throwing him into the wall. Tommy swears, vigorously rubbing the back of his armour-less head.

“Okay, okay. But at least admit you’re  _ annoying_-“

“ME!?” Tommy yells, indignation flaring up, Bad covering his ears. “You think  _ I’m _ annoying?” 

“Yes.”

“Dream, Dream,  _ Dream _ . Most people when they first meet me find me annoying...” Tommy raises his voice into a boastful exclamation, “...but then they realise I’m the BEST!” 

He raises his eyebrows to himself, impressed by his own swagger.

“It’s true, it’s true! And then they realise I’m also just very _stupid _ .”

The other three snort, loudly voicing their agreement to that statement, and Tommy isn’t surprised at all. They make their way further down, the air getting colder and colder, more inhospitable and musty. They drop down into another tunnel, voices echoing through the caverns like a murder of crows. To be honest, if it wasn’t for the ever present hum of the others’ netherite armour, Tommy would’ve forgotten he was exiled completely.

Tommy reaches a dead end, so he begins to tunnel into the cave wall, his three bodyguards in single file behind him. They bicker all the while, Bad often inputting a stern “language!”  and it’s all quite funny, really, and Tommy begins to find he’s actually  _enjoying himself_.  Huh.

He taps the floor with his pickaxe once, not really paying attention, and suddenly he’s plummeting down, stomach in his throat, and everything’s red, everything’s red, everything’s on  fire.  He screams, scrabbling at the walls, throwing water at where he hopes is where his feet are. Then a hissing fills the room, steam rising from his charred skin, but he’s okay, he’s no longer on fire, he’s alive. He blinks away ash and sees a wall of black rock shielding him from the pit of lava.

“TOMMY!” his captors shout, and the frantic concern and worry in their voices shakes him back into reality. He can hear a great racket of hectic movement in the tunnel above him. 

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Tommy screeches, collapsing onto the floor, pain numbing all his senses. “WHY IS MY DAY GOING LIKE THIS?”

Sapnap drops down next to him, stance somewhat  _ protective, _but that might just be the smoke in his skull talking. Tommy can feel his skin regenerating already, but his favourite shirt is tattered to the point of no return. 

He squalls as he chucks a whole load of water above his head, and it floods onto the lava in a cacophony of horrible gurgles, soothing his blistering skin. That wasn’t the first time he had fallen into lava, but  _ oh boy _ will he never get used to the sensation of being burnt alive. 

Dream appears next to him, jokes a bit a strained, and he gestures his wide, powerful hands in a shaken sort of way. Tommy and Sapnap cover the rest of the lava, and Tommy’s common sense must’ve been melted by the heat, because he feels a bit more mellow now, some part of him warmed by their distress on his behalf. 

The moment is forgotten scarily quickly, the conversation they were having picked up where they left. Tommy’s burns fade in record time, and so they begin to tunnel once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap will take place in the nether if all goes to plan :) stay tuned


	4. Skies of Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy desires human company more than anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // suicidal thoughts

They manage to get out of the ground eventually, though the moment Tommy breathes in that sweet, sweet, not-cave air, a creeper stumbles into him and he gets shot into the sky. Not a great day, but whatever, he’s used it. 

He finds himself running back through the forest after respawning, so he can help guide Dream and Sapnap back to the campsite, and he burps at them when he arrives. Thankfully, they’ve left his assortment of random shit in the crater that was left by the explosion, so Tommy picks everything back up again with gratitude in his crooked grin, and they set off together to go find Ghostbur, who’s probably stuck in a two-block hole in the ocean, or something as equally stupid as that.

As Tommy makes his way back to the campsite, he tries to sift his way through a confusing canopy of emotions. He keeps having to remind himself, fuck, it’s  _Dream_ who exiled him, it’s  _Dream_ who tortured him, it’s _Dream_ who’s his enemy. He’s a villainous bitch, a manipulative villainous bitch, so why does a grin tear it’s way onto his face when he hears that maniacal kettle laughter? Why does his dumb fucking brain keep feeding him ideas on how to get him to stay for longer? Adventures they could go on, so he doesn’t leave just yet?

Tommy has lost everything because of him, over and over and over. Dream has threatened him and robbed him and humiliated him, yet Tommy  _ craves _ his company, his approval, and he hates it. He  _ knows _ that Dream would cut him down without a breath of hesitation, he  _ knows _ Dream is just going to hurt him again the next chance he gets. But he’s so lonely,  _fucking_ God , he’s hurting so much, he’s drowning in an ocean of helplessness without Tubbo, his lifeline, and Dream’s the only one around, he’s the only one there right now. Dream is there for him, he’s the only fucking thing Tommy has.

A familiar beige hovers on the edge of his vision, and Tommy jolts back into the present, surprised to find he’s already back. There’s a pale face at the window of his house, wispy brown fringe artfully styled. He slams open the door, puffing up his chest, his worries forgotten.

“WILBUR!” he crows, Bad and Dream squabbling behind him.

The ghost turns his forlorn face towards him, recognition tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s holding a slab of meat in one hand, clumsily skewered by what looks like a failed attempt at crafting a sword, and his mustard sweatshirt is stained crimson. His greyish face is slightly flushed pink, and he looks every so slightly pleased when Tommy grins at him. Then the door opens again, and his face falls once more. “Hello,” he croaks as the trio of knights parade in, richly armoured, an avalanche of excessively intricate purple metal.

“Can I call you Wilbur, or Ghostbur?” Tommy blurts out, still riled up from his cave adventure. His ears are ringing, his arms still tingling from healing blisters. Wilbur frowns at his burnt, tattered shirt, and the tears in his trousers from tripping on rocks.

“You can call me whatever you like!” the ghost replies, smiling emptily again, voice flickering like a broken bulb. He steps back a little, moving into the corner. “Hi Dream! Hi Sapnap! Hi Badboyhalo!”

There isn’t a whole lot of space, suddenly, because everyone’s powerful, palpable presences are rearing their ugly heads, snarling and baring their teeth, each of them trying to dominate the room. Larger-than-life energies size each other up, and the resulting tension is overbearing. Tommy feels his pride crackle and swell in retaliation.

“Don’t let this man in your house by the way,” Tommy says, tilting his head at Dream, leaning against the counter. “He’s done terrible, terrible things to so many people.”

Sapnap chips in, then, before the argument could flare up, “This is a great house!” Wilbur thanks him bashfully.

“Yeah, I love it, I love it.” Tommy agrees, ego rising like the sun.

“Yeah actually, this whole area, how long did it take to build it?” Dream asks, voice pleasant and appreciative, his mask stained here and there with soot.

Wilbur leads him outside. “Uh... about an hour? It wasn’t too much.”

Tommy jumps off the table he was sitting on as their voices fade into the unintelligible. He sits down at the crafting table with a sigh, unloading the spoils of his quest, setting to work on creating a whole new suit of iron armour. He hasn’t slept in ages, and his eyes burn with the effort of staying awake, so his movements are sloppy and slow, but he still manages to finish quite quickly, eager to get back to Wilbur and keep an eye on him.

When he goes back outside, feeling vastly better with the comforting weight of iron pressed onto his skin, the group are just standing in a circle, talking and catching up. Before Tommy can butt in, Sapnap sticks a hand out, summoning something from his inventory, and suddenly the temperature drops about ten degrees in an awfully familiar way. Sapnap’s body is blocking his view, but Tommy knows instantly what it is, just from the sound that it makes, like a nebula breathing out exasperatedly. He takes a step forward, and hears Wilbur breathe out a euphoric “Tommy!” and he’s right, it’s an eerie box of  _ void _ , purple butterflies of galaxies fluttering around, tugging at his soul like a black hole of magical greens and stars.

Wilbur starts whimpering with disbelief, and Tommy reaches forward, running his fingers along the lid, the coolness of it so recognisable. Tommy has never been able to describe what it feels like, there just aren’t enough words to capture the feeling; it’s like dipping your hand in a whirlpool of boiling and freezing water that refuse to mix; like running your fingers over the broken teeth of a dragon; like touching every single surface of the planet that has ever existed at the same time. He lifts the latch eagerly, eyes fixed on the expanse of black, and the stars offer his items to him with steady hands, his scratched discs and shimmering enchantment books rising and falling with each breath of the cosmos. He runs his hands over all of them, revelling in the glory of his precious things that only he can see, all the tangible memories they contain, until suddenly they’re gone, replaced with a fistful of air, particles of the night exploding into the grass. Tommy snarls at the loss.

“Dream!” Sapnap growls. “Why’d you break it? I was getting something!”

Tommy can still feel the rippled surface of his discs in his hands, he can still feel the smooth glass of his potions, the potions he made with Tubbo. He looks up at Wilbur desperately, trying not to snivel. Dream wheezes out a laugh from above him, and Tommy scratches at his forehead in disbelief.

“We weren’t  _ quick enough _ ,” he groans, and Wilbur returns the sentiment with a sympathetic frown. Tommy half-heartedly summons a bucket of lava with an instigating jeer, and chucks it at Dream a few times, who just amusedly counters it with his own bucket of water.

“Sapnap, we need an enderchest,” Wilbur whisper-shouts, still not having mastered the art of secrecy. Tommy turns to face him anyway, nodding vigorously.

“Yes.  _ Now _ .” he orders, and something conflicted flashes in Sapnap’s eyes, something sympathetic and musing. Tommy pushes it further. “Also we have no  _ diamonds _ .”

Sapnap looks at him searchingly, and glances at Dream, like he’s asking for permission. Tommy looks back over at him too, and the green bastard is now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silently observing, and a pang of uneasiness stirs up in his stomach.

“And we also need more _girls_ ,” he jokes, turning back to Sapnap, and the compassion leaks away, replaced with a relieved, boisterous mirth, and Sapnap punches Bad affectionately on the shoulder. “This guy gets all the girls.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Tommy says shortly, submerging his disappointment. “Badboyhalo, what was the last girl you got with?” 

Dream pushes off the wall before Bad can reply, and Tommy flinches.

“Alright, Wilbur, what do you need an ender chest for?” Dream asks, tilting his head with friendly interest. “Because I might make an exception, for you.”

“Uh, well... we need it, so we can access our stuff!” Wilbur says brightly, voice soft like flower petals. “From the old world...  _ the old world _ .” He trails off into a creepy murmur, shoulders hunched up to his ears, and Tommy squawks with laughter, trying not to get too hopeful.

“So... it’s not to go back.” Dream says, glancing at Tommy momentarily.

“How are we supposed to go back with an ender chest...?”

“Well I don’t know, maybe there’s stuff in there that could help you get back.”

Wilbur turns to him, still clutching his stick with miscellaneous charred flesh on it. “Tommy?Do you have anything in it which could help you go back?”

Tommy looks at Dream and then back to Wilbur. “What, like a boat? What do you mean.” he says, feeling uncharacteristically solemn. Wilbur stares at him, unblinking, the light of the moon whitening his skin. 

“Yeah, to be honest, we just need  wood to get back, it’s not really all that difficult.”

A rowdiness bubbles up like magma. “Well we got a lot of wood-“ Tommy makes a long noise from the back of his throat, “-I haven’t really shown Dream this- the LOGS! THE LOGS! Look at this!” 

Wilbur starts yelling too, and they’re both overexcited and high-spirited now, and Tommy makes a sound not dissimilar to a car revving its engine. He gestures animatedly at the corner of the campsite, where a tree stump sits forlornly, a lone apple balanced on it. 

“Dream- Dream.” Wilbur says gruffly. “Dream. You may  _ stand _ , Dream.” He summons a log in front of them, Tommy hooting raucously all the while. Dream patiently steps onto it, with the air of one humouring the antics of young children. 

“Stand on the log Dream! Stand on the log! No. Not  _ that _ log,” Tommy shoves him off, and Dream tolerantly lets himself fall, stepping onto the stump instead.

“You can stand on either, you can stand on either log,” Wilbur soothes, and they both step back, making ogre noises, and Tommy feels energetic again.

“Wait no, no, Wilbur! We gotta destroy this pillar! It blocks the peripheral!” Tommy demands, and Wilbur makes noises of agreement, clearing away the offending log. Tommy returns to his original position, before scoffing and looking away.

“No one wants to prime to  _ Sapnap _ !” he whinges, and Sapnap rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“Oh  _come on_.  I came here to visit you and now you’re just-“

“You literally opened our first conversation by  _ bullying _ me.”

“I‘ll- I’ll prime to Sapnap!” Wilbur says, swaying from side to side. Sapnap cheers, and Tommy grumbles.

“Three people have primed to me! Four!” Sapnap yells, and Tommy snorts.

“Maybe I’m wrong, maybe Sapnap is the prime god,” Tommy laughs, running out of the campsite to refill his water bucket. “Why are you- why are you _like_ _ this _ -“

“Wilbur, I’ve got a gift for you,” Dream says placidly, and Tommy and Sapnap turn their attention to him, the log forgotten. A  _ gift _ ? That surely can’t bode well.

“Ooh! I love gifts!” Wilbur says, and somehow in the two seconds Tommy was getting water he’d gotten on top of the pile of barrels.

He jumps down, and when his feet strike the ground, there isn’t a single noise. “Let me see!”

Dream lifts up his right hand, strong and freckled, and conjures something leather bound, feather on top.

“A book!” Wilbur says, delighted, and Tommy scrunches up his eyebrows in shock.

“It’s blank, so you can write stuff in it,” Dream explains, and Wilbur gasps, tickled pink. Tommy frowns, unreasonably irritated.

“Hey Wilbur, Wilbur-“

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” the ghost says, not hearing Tommy.

“You’re welcome!” Dream replies cheerfully, voice laced with something dangerous.

“Wilbur, Wilbur, while we’re out here in the woods, having some clarity time, there’s a novel I need to write,” Tommy says, louder this time, an arrogant tilt to his chin, watching Sapnap and Dream for a reaction.

“So you, so you want my book?” Wilbur pouts.

“So you’re gonna just  _ steal _ his book?” comes a chiding voice, and Tommy smiles wider, glad he got a response.

“Oh no, no. Do you have a  _ spare _ one, Dream?” 

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy smirks triumphantly. “Well listen, it’s the world that-“

A hand tugs on his elbow, and suddenly the book is in his hands. “Look Tommy, you can use it to write your novel,” says Wilbur, but Tommy already has the first page open, quill in hand, scribbling in his disorderly, illegible script.

“I’m sure I can find another book,” Wilbur says, but Tommy isn’t really listening. “Ooh! I can go find one now.”

They continue to banter and make jokes at each other’s expense, and Tommy can feel the last drop of whatever humble sadness he had been wallowing in drain away. He explores a nearby village and gets unnecessarily excited over a bell, and then Wilbur accidentally shoots him in the leg. He swears and swears and swears until Badboyhalo smacks him with a trident, and genuinely can’t help himself, but they all help him make a tent overlooking the sea anyway. The tent is shit but Tommy likes it nonetheless, with dirty white fabric, chunks of wool still clinging onto it, and wonky, uneven wooden poles that are stuck unevenly into the dirt.

He goes mining again too, and he finds diamonds (oh fuck yeah!) and he asks Dream question after question, because Tommy can tell he’s in a patient, agreeable mood and he himself is feeling really annoying and wants to corner Dream with things he doesn’t know how to answer. But, mad props to the guy, he’s remarkably quick on his feet, answering sincerely and succinctly with jokes that make Tommy squawk with laughter. He likes hearing Dream laugh, too - how it easily fluctuates from this pleasant, genuine chuckle to reaching  the _fucking ultrasonic range_ like a kettle that’s about to explode.

They go to the nether, eventually, and Tommy has never been so relieved to breath in that despicable, acrid excuse for air, to feel that toxic heat press against his skin. He can feel sweat starting to pool at his brow the moment he steps out the coolness of the portal, tears building in his eyes in retaliation to the malicious smoke coming from every direction.

He scoots across uneven red stone and gazes out across the lake of glowing, throbbing orange, streams of lava tumbling out of every corner, patches of glow-stone offering the only pleasant sight. It’s still genuinely the worst place  ever , but it’s nice to be back.

They make their way to the Nether Hub, and Tommy can’t help but feel like he’s fourth wheeling the whole journey, making uneasy jokes through gritted teeth, and he stares at the portal that leads to L’Manberg and  _man he is only two steps away from returning home and seeing Tubbo again_ ,  but then he feels a firm hand grip his shoulder and without turning he knows it’s Dream, he knows that that is his final warning, he goes into the portal, he gets two seconds to view his country, and then he gets  _ slaughtered _ , for real this time.

Dream, Sapnap and Wilbur go into the aforementioned portal to see the Christmas Tree back home, eyes fixed on Tommy jeeringly as purple hurls around them. He feels traitorous despair rise like bubbling acid, and in a second he’s at the edge of the platform, one foot off the ground, hypnotised by the steady swirl of the magma hundreds of metres below him. The force of its heat presses evenly against his face, lighting his vision in a glow of red.

_It would be so easy._

_No one would even mind if you jumped._

_Tubbo doesn’t care._

_Wilbur doesn’t care._

_Your dad hasn’t even visited you._

He’s never going home. He’s going to stay on this dumb fucking island in his dumb fucking tent, all alone, the laughing stock of L’Manberg. Dream will get bored of him eventually. Wilbur will go back to his rightful home eventually. But Tommy will stay, he will stay out in the world by himself, driven insane by his desperate loneliness, friendless and loveless, and he will die an inconsequential death and no one will even notice that he’s gone.

An indecipherable amount of time passes. A hand pushes him to the side, and he stumbles, but upon seeing a flash of green and a silly bone mask, he returns to his staring. Self-pity and shame claw at his back.

_Just jump._

_Just jump._

_Just jump, you fucking coward._

He’s knocked to one side again, this time more insistent, and Dream is suddenly blocking off his jump gap, dirt in hand, movements hasty and abrupt.

Tommy’s gaze is dragged back to the red, the free, swirling red.

“It’s not your time to die yet, Tommy,” Dream says chidingly, nudging him away from the platform again.

“It’s never my time to die,” Tommy finds himself replying, his brain still coming back online, his loud mouth doing the work for him.

“That’s true,” Dream says, his voice soothing, and Tommy feels ever so slightly reassured by his presence behind him, as they walk across the bridge and back to Tommy’s portal.

_At least Dream’s still here._

_At least Dream still cares._

He heaves a great sigh as stumbles over uneven bridges.

“Can I not just go on one little walk on the Prime Path?” Tommy asks, a pleasantly familiar arrogance unfurling.

Dream makes an amused noise, “Noo.”

“What about on Christmas day?”

Dream doesn’t reply immediately, and Tommy’s eyebrows raise in disbelief, and as a further pondering silence ensues, Tommy opens his mouth in shock, hope and joy running up and down his veins.

“Um... I would consider an exception, maybe,” Dream says kindly, and Tommy feels his face scrunching up in tearful gratitude. “But you know, maybe not.”

Wilbur and Sapnap arrive behind them soon enough, holding a Polaroid of Sapnap on the tree, and everything returns to normal again, with the three older men admonishing Tommy for not knowing what a Polaroid even is. They turn around back to where they first arrived, all of them a bit lost.

“I’m all sad and shit,” Tommy says maniacally, to no one in particular. “I’m gonna get addicted to coffee. Then I’m gonna get a New York accent and I’m gonna go ‘KovehVay’.”

He’s not surprised when no one even replies.

“I’m gonna grow a New York accent,” he says, decidedly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of purple, but it’s the wrong portal, so Dream starts bridging upwards, Tommy in tow.

An idea crosses his mind. “If I were to kill you right now, you would just die.”

“I have golden apples, so I wouldn’t, no.”

Tommy hits him a couple times with shovel, experimentally. Dream doesn’t even stop building.

“Tommy,” he says, warningly. “Stop.”

Tommy smacks him with his sword in reply.

Dream jogs across the bridge, and Tommy tries his best to keep up with him, but man that guy is fast.

“I just want you to die, I’m not asking for much,” he says under his breath, but for once he doesn’t really believe it. He destroys the blocks under Dream’s feet, but he dodges backwards with ease. Tommy tries again, and Dream steps backwards onto firm land, not once retaliating.

They find the nether portal eventually. Tommy winces at the sight of empty plains, of an endless expanse of trees. He grits his teeth. The nether seems like a haven in comparison.

“Home, sweet home,” Dream says with a smile.


End file.
